


triode

by fishcola



Series: transistorverse [3]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (in a sort of unconventional manner), And Other Negotiations, Dubcon/Violent Sex (referenced in past of character), Explicit Sexual Content, Guns (but no use of them), M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Prostitution, Trauma/Trauma Recovery, also some of those negotiations are arguing quite angrily, and that doesn't always look like people think it should, kind of a lot of negotiations, reclaiming identity and agency in the face of trauma, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: a game of three-card-monte from the afterwardshey honey, you've got lots of cash / bring us 'round a bottle and we'll have some laughs / gin's what i'm drinking / i was raised on robbery





	triode

**Author's Note:**

  * For [highoctane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/highoctane/gifts).



> another request that lit a strange little fire and turned in a direction i'm pretty sure was not intended by **highoctane** , but I blame them anyway
> 
> this piece contains explicit triggers for prostitution and trauma recovery, but nothing more overt than the original fic, so if you read that you're probably good. however: if your preferred romantic-happy-endings involve only monogamous relationships, skip this one.
> 
> perhaps it goes without saying, but won't make a lot of sense if you haven't read _transistor_

**i try and i try but i can’t save a cent** ****  
**i’m up after midnight cookin’, trying to make my rent** ****  
**i’m rough but i’m pleasin’** **  
** **i was raised on robbery**

 

They kept to themselves, the commune, as much as possible. If Tara had her druthers, no one’d even know they were there, would never see hide nor hair of any of them. She’s sweet, and generous, but she doesn’t trust outsiders, and Pat understands why. 

But complete secrecy is a pipe dream, of course. 

First off, you just run into people, every now and again. The desert’s sparse, but there’s other folks out here—travelers, collectives, and unlucky wanderers—folks who’ve holed up somewhere quiet and distant from all the mess. You don’t see them often, but it’s a real scare when you do, when you’re picking through an old town or looting an abandoned camp or trying to pull apart a junker for scrap and there’s someone else just _there_ , doing the same thing as you. 

Everyone’s wary and jumpy, of course, but out here in the west at least people don’t shoot on sight. As long as you keep your distance and you don’t follow anyone home, you’ll be fine.

Also, sometimes it’s just useful to have people around. It can be worth the risk, worth it to wave a colored shirt out a car window and get close enough to sort out one of the few things that everyone cares about. White for _big news._ Yellow for _we’ve got shit to trade._ Black for _we found a body and it might be one of yours._

Of course, sometimes they see your sign and still turn tail and run—they wager it’s not worth it, to find out if they’re facing honest folks or not. Understandable. But once you’re out here long enough, you get brave enough or desperate enough. And then they’re flagging yellow, and you’re flagging yellow, and you find a place to parley. 

“I figure I’m going?” Pat says, placidly. 

They’ve all piled out of the cars to talk strategy—Clay and Jonah and Karen—two cars, because you don’t just take one, this far out in the desert. 

“If you’re sure,” Clayton says, tentative. “We can draw lots.” 

It’s risky, going. But someone’s gotta stay with the cars in case a hasty getaway is needed, and someone’s gotta mosey over, and meet at the halfway point, bargain with the folks who’re standing, blurry-blue in the distance and having the exact same conversation. 

“No need,” Pat shrugs. “I’ll go.” He usually goes. He’s good at negotiating—had plenty of practice—and the others trust him. He won’t lose his temper. He won’t give the farm away. If something goes fuckin’ _wild_ , he’ll keep a cool head and tight lips.   

When Bri’s there, he comes along too. Pat doesn’t like that— _there don’t need to be two of us, kid_ —but he can’t be deterred. 

 _I’m a fabulous liar,_ he’d grin, if he were here. _I can sell apples to an apple farmer. You need me._

And Pat’d laugh, and try to shake him off, and then the kid’d get _earnest_ on him, and quiet… 

_…and also, if something happens to you, it better happen to me too._

He worries too much, the kid does. It’s good, though, when it’s just them two against the world. They can take anything. 

But Bri’s not around this time, and frankly Pat prefers it that way. He’d rather get his own ass in and out of hot water, rather than him and someone else too. He’s had more experience with the former. 

“I’ll go with you, Pat” Jonah offers. “Back you up.” 

“Nah. I know what we need. Just let me go on. I can handle it.”

Jonah narrows his eyes. “You don’t even carry a gun, Pat.” 

“I’d lose a shootout,” Pat shrugs. “So no point. Better you stay here. Why risk two?” 

The desert heat’s relentless, and there’s sweat on Jonah’s brow and a frown creasing his forehead and that stubborn set of his jaw. 

“You let Brian go with you.” 

“Hah!” Pat laughs. “I don’t _let_ Brian do anything.” 

Clayton and Karen just watch them, wordless. It’s too sweaty to have it out, here, really. Plus, no point. They’ve done it before. Quite a few times. They both know who wins, in the end. 

“Jay,” Pat says gently. “It’s not gonna be any trouble. I talk better on my own, anyway.” 

“All right,” Jonah sighs. “Stay frosty.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a slow meander, to the midway point. It never pays to look too eager, for things like this. Pat doesn’t stick his hands in his pockets—it’s too goddamn _hot_ —but that’s the air he tries to affect, in his little rambling walk. Like he’s got not a care in the world. 

His smile’s genuine, actually. It’s not _safe_ , this shit, but it makes him feel useful. The others aren’t much for talking to strangers—the trio don’t mind, but everyone else gets tongue-tied. Plus, everyone knows Pat’s the most patient, dispassionate, the best negotiator, most used to weirdos and hotheads, the least likely to blow the damn thing up. 

He’s _good_ at this. This one thing. 

There’s three figures coming toward him. That’s quite a few, actually. Usually it’s one, or two. Patrick presses the sweaty nerves away with a brush of cold thinking. No reason to send three. Once they saw he was just one, they’d only do that as a comfort to themselves. If they’re nervous. New.

Pat’s got the little yellow rag tied around his wrist. He pushes his hair back, as they draw close. “Hey there,” he greets, calm and friendly enough. 

The three look jumpy. Maybe they don’t trust each other alone with the car. Or maybe… actually, maybe they’re close friends, the way they look at each other, antsy-anxious. He wonders how long they’ve been out in the desert. 

“What do you need,” the biggest one says, with a greying beard and his hand on his gun.

“We’re looking for some car parts,” Pat says easily. “And of course, anything else useful. Gas, books, batteries, stuff like that. You?”

“Compass,” the middle one says immediately. He’s short, with dark hair and almond eyes, and he looks hopeful. He might be the tinkerer of the crew. “Crank generator. Batteries. Magnets?” 

Pat’s face falls. “Might not have anything for you, this time, then. We’ve got some meds, and some books, and shoes. A few spare sunglasses. Glass. Bunch of scrap metal we just picked up. No magnets, though.” 

“ _Shit_ ,” the third guy swears, shaking his fiery red hair. “We’re never gonna find a damn compass, boss.” 

“Ugh,” the big guy shakes his head, but relaxes a bit. Disappointed, but less anxious. “What car parts you need, anyway?” 

“I’ll know ‘em when I see ‘em,” Pat shrugs, with a vague wave. “Gonna be honest, I’m not the mechanic, so I don’t know all the names. I just know what it looks like.” 

The boss taps his foot, looks him up and down, sighs. “Shelley, we’ve got shit in the trunk, yeah?” 

The dark-haired guy nods. “Uh-huh.” 

“Wanna take a look, then?”

“All right.” Pat follows them back to their car without particular worry. It’s just as easy to hurt him over there as over here. They’ve got guns, sure, but they don’t seem keen to use ‘em. Mostly they just seem frustrated. Pat’s not sure why. Half the time, this is how trades go. Everybody wants the same things, and no one’s got ‘em to spare. 

The trunk’s full of all kinds of doo-dads, wrenches and bolts and pistons and shit. They maybe found a breakdown and were scavenging it—Pat knows better than to ask where— 

 _shit._ They do have it. 

By chance, by luck, he thinks it’s the right thing—fuel injector, or whatever Clayton called it—or it’s close enough that Clay can probably make it work. He sees a few other things he’s supposed to keep his eye out for, too, things that are good to have—pistons and belts and the like. They maybe found a _couple_ cars that just broke down. Lucky bastards.

“Yeah, I could use a few of these,” Pat says, carefully. Time to start bargaining. “What’ll you take for ‘em?” 

They repeat, list off things, but Pat’s heart sinks. Nothing that they’ve got. This trip was pretty light in terms of finds, and they didn’t bring much to trade with, beyond what he’s already offered. 

“We’re not gonna give you shit for _books_ ,” the boss scoffs.

Pat shrugs off the gruff stare. “Sorry. Some folks would. We could probably get you some of what you want, but we’d have to go back to base first. We could meet here… tomorrow…?”

It’s a long shot, and nothin’ doing. “No fuckin’ way,” the boss scowls. “Not gonna sit here like ducks while you roll up with however many of your crew you can shake out to scam us. Sounds like you’ve got nothing, so no deal.” 

“Sounds like.” Patrick pushes back his hair, and sighs. “Look, I can’t—I dunno what to say. I know we need that one—” he points “and we’d pay a pretty penny to get it. Cigarettes? A good watch? I think we’d even cough up our spare tire.” 

The dark-haired guy—Shelley—shifts and looks up at the boss at that. “Tires’re always useful.” 

“Not _that_ fucking useful,” the guy grunts. He’s agitated. Pat gets it. Got adrenaline running in his veins, psyched himself up to face a random stranger with it, and now the whole fuckin’ thing’s been a waste. Patrick actually prefers bargaining when people are ticked. They’re a little more dangerous, but they also get eager to hear a good deal. 

“What’ll it take, on top of the tire, to even it out?” Pat says, serenely. “Carton of cigarettes? Pane of glass? Couple blowjobs?” 

The redhead’s eyebrows go up. 

The boss snorts, as if that’s a joke. “You think you’re hot shit, ey?” 

“I’m a pro,” Patrick says easily, gesturing away the humor. “I’ll give you the first half for free, and then you can tell me if I’ve got a deal.”

Redhead is _seriously_ interested. Maybe Pat’s having a good hair day. He throws him a wink, and the kid blushes. 

“Nothin’ doing,” the boss sighs, but it’s not particularly malicious. “Got anything better?”

Pat gestures at himself blandly. “I’m full service, if you’re so inclined. But yeah, I’ve listed off everything we’ve got, more or less. So unless one of you wants to try out the merchandise, I guess I’ll head back.” 

Redhead clicks his tongue. “Hey, look, couldn’t hurt—”

“You’re such a fuckin’ _horndog,_  Mark,” Boss turns to him and growls.

“I haven’t had a good fuck in _ages_ ,” Mark whines. He’s young, that one. Maybe twenty, if that. Tall and broad and freckled, with an earnest expression that’s equal parts silly and hungry. 

Shelley’s also young, with a more guarded eye, but he’s looking from Mark to Patrick with something approaching interest. “You said we could try for free? Really?” 

“You’re not even _gay,_ ” Boss bites at him, exasperated. Boss is older, maybe forty. Older than Pat. It’s kinda hilarious, watching him try to reign in his wayward squad. Doesn’t seem like the first time they’ve bickered over something goofy. Pat’s starting to think it might really only be the three of them. Fucking hell, that’s a tough road, out here. Just three folks trying to survive.

Pat smiles. “Sounds like y’all don’t have girls back home? I’m not gonna claim I’m the prettiest. But I’ll suck you off, or you can fuck me, and I know how to make it a good time. Even got condoms.” 

“We don— _really?_ Where the fuck d’you pick those up, out here?” Boss asks, incredulously. 

“Pinched ‘em from work,” Pat tries, and is rewarded with a laugh. “I told you I was a pro. I’ll throw in a couple, if it sweetens the deal. On top of whatever you wanna use, of course.” 

“ _Please?”_ Mark asks, a little wheedling. “I’m not—we’re _never_ gonna get another chance. We’ve never met anyone who offered.”  

Boss is wavering, Pat can tell. Not so much with interest. But maybe with just being tired of turning the kids down. Patrick smiles to himself. They’re jumpy fucks, and horny, but seem damn decent. It hasn’t even occurred to them that they could just hold him down and take what they want. He appreciates that. 

“I _hate_ you guys,” Boss groans. “Fine, fine. I’m not gonna fucking watch, though. I’ll go bring the damn thing over to your crew, yeah, and they’ll give me the tire? and you fucks do your thing. Be fucking _done_ by the time I get back, yeah?” 

“Roger,” Pat nods, as the guy hastily shuffles off in the dust. 

 

* * *

 

 

The two aren’t bad, really. They like kissing a surprising amount, although they don’t much like taking turns. It’s one scruffy face and one smooth face right after another, and they smash him so fervently into the car it grinds the mirror into his back and knocks his glasses askew. Which is all good. Enthusiasm is easier to handle, honestly, than apathy, when you’re trying to do this kinda thing. 

Pat breaks away to ask if they could kindly hand off the weapons…? ‘cause he’s not keen to get accidentally shot mid-fuck. They find this reasonable, but they’re so overeager—unwilling to miss out, maybe—that rather than trading off they both just drop them a respectable distance away and get back to it, together. Well all right then. Disarmed. Who says there isn’t any trust out in the wasteland. 

Once they get to the actual fucking—which is soon, they’ve got a time limit, however long it takes Boss to lope slowly across the desert—the two want to do it in the car. It takes more acrobatics than Pat bargained for, trying to get one in his mouth and then the other, while the first finds space to ease in. He’s spit-slicked and patient, but it still _drags_ , since Pat didn’t think to bring lube. Next time, next time. 

Still, lube or no, the boys are young and randy and don’t last very long. They _love_ Pat’s yelps of pain—he makes ‘em as high-pitched as he can manage and tries to sell them as pleasure—and they like running their hands through his long hair, pulling it while they fuck and petting it after, red-faced with lust. Patrick feels sorry for them, honestly, sorry enough that he kisses gently along the nape of redhead’s neck and lets them pull him close. They’re probably not getting much touch, these two. Very few hookers to buy, out here. 

“I haven’t done that in _years,_ ” Shelley sighs in pleasure as he pulls up his drawers. 

“No trouble,” Pat smiles, and drags a hand through his hair, as he gets back to standing. “Sorry if I’ve got the wrong parts for you.” 

“You okay?” Redhead— _Mark_ —looks at him Pat in some consternation, ‘cause he’s probably got a bit of a hitch in his giddyup at the moment. 

“Fine, fine,” Patrick shrugs easily. “Normal.”  

Mark reaches out, as if to touch Pat’s shoulder, and then hesitates. Patrick steps into the touch. Kid might be having some doubts. First-timers feel like that, sometimes. “Was it, uh—” 

Pat smiles and lies. “It was nice to get a little practice, honestly. Gettin’ rusty out here.” 

They don’t have to make small talk long, thank God, because soon Boss’s back with his tire, and an immensely relieved expression, once he realizes everyone has their clothes on. 

“All right, you,” he glares at Pat. “Exchange made. Now we’re getting _out_ of here.” 

It’s no surprise, the animosity, and Pat just tries to shrug in a way that looks kinda gracious. They both know who won this round. Boss just scowls and gets in the car. 

Dark hair muscles their new prize into the trunk, slams it shut, and gets in shotgun without another word. Redhead dawdles, just for a second. He’s looking at Pat, and he’s got that _look._  

He tilts his chin up. “Go ahead, if you want.” 

Mark’s expression shifts a little, on his sunburned freckly face. He licks his lips and then dives in for his kiss, hard, plenty of tongue and desperation. Pat yields easily. It’s fine, the last dusty-sour press of his mouth, the way his arm pulls around Pat’s hips, the way he whispers _thanks_ into Pat’s throat before he lets go guiltily and hurries away. Barely a second or two, it takes. All good. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Pat gets back to the car the others are tense. They’ve been waiting a _long_ time, for Pat to reappear, with all the talking and the people-moving. It touches him a little, how worried they look, as his slow meander gets close enough to resolve their faces. But he’s clearly in one piece, and he waves off any concern, and the frowns ease off pretty quick. In particular, Clayton’s fuckin’ over-the-moon about his fuel injector. 

“We’re gonna get the old diesel working again,” he grins. “Oh gosh, our gasoline nightmare’s gonna be over. _Thank you,_ Patrick, I can’t believe they traded this for a tire.” 

Pat laughs. “They were good guys, actually.” 

“That one who came over here didn’t seem very cheerful,” Jonah says. He’s oddly surly. “Didn’t know for sure what his game was. Keeping you over there.” 

“They were jumpy,” Pat offers, with a wave of the hand. “Him, especially. The other two were just kids. I think maybe those three are all alone out there.” 

“Let’s get moving.” Jonah cuts him off from further explanation. “Clay, you’ll drive, yeah? Take Karen in the Jeep?”

They load up. Pat drives, because he’s used to it. Jonah would do just as well, probably, but Patrick likes to feel useful. 

Maybe he should’ve let Jo do it, though. He seems antsy. Tapping his fingers un-rhythmically on the door. Not talking. 

“It’s good you didn’t come,” Pat says, just to make conversation. “You’d’a spooked them. They were already afraid enough of _me,_  if you can believe it.” 

“I’d believe it,” Jonah answers, distractedly. “Sent three out to meet one? Left the car alone? Stupid. They must be new.” 

“Yeah,” Pat nods. “Hope they figure themselves out quick enough.” 

There’s a long pause. Pat drives, and he keeps expecting Jonah to jump in with something—he’s not as chatty as Laura or Brian, but he’s spent enough time with them that he tends that way, tends to fill up the space. 

“Patrick.” When Jonah finally does speak, his voice is a little strained. Pat looks over, quick, and sees his hands on the dash. “What’d you trade them.”

Pat shrugs. “You saw. Tire, for the fuel injector. Shame we didn’t have more they wanted, I think we coulda picked up a few more parts. But mostly they wanted complicated shit—magnets, batteries, stuff like that.” 

“What _else_ did you give them, Patrick.” 

Pat glances over. He supposes he might have to explain, but he’d rather not. “Nothing, Jonah.”

“That guy—” Jonah pauses, taps his fingertips. “He was ticked. Mad at himself.” 

“Yeah, I told you. He was the older one. The boss. The other guys were just kids. He was keeping them in line. Getting tired of their shit.” 

“Hmm.” Jonah contemplates this, turns it over in his mind. He’s thinking harder than Pat would like, about all this. “He wasn’t happy about the trade, Pat. I could tell. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he wasn’t getting his money’s worth. But he did it. _Why?_ ” 

The _why_ is—not _combative_ , but insistent.  

“How should I know, Jo? Maybe he just wanted to feel like he accomplished something.” 

This is a little clipped, Pat’d admit. He wants to shut this line of questions down, if he can. 

There’s a long silence. 

Jonah eases out a breath, like he’s just on the edge of fury and he’s walking himself back down. “Please don’t lie to me. You’re limping, Pat. Not a lot. But you are. I had plenty of time to watch for it while you were walking back over here.”

“I’m not lying,” Pat murmurs. “I didn’t _give_ them anything.”

“What’d they take, then.” Jonah says it, quiet. 

“They didn’t _take_ anything, either,” Pat sighs. “They just wanted a quick fuck, so I made it happen. No harm, no foul.” 

“ _Shit_ ,” Jonah swears, and pounds a fist on the dash. The violence of the movement—it’s sharp—makes Pat startle. “No wonder—for _fuck’s sake,_ Patrick—”

Pat collects himself quick, brushes his hair back. “Don’t be precious, Jonah. We needed something, I got it. Everyone walks away happy. That’s how trades work.” 

“You—” Jonah is nearly shouting. “We didn’t _need_ it. Pat. You don’t have to—that’s _sick_ —” 

It smarts, that. 

“I didn’t ask _you_ to do it,” Pat bites out. “And I didn’t ask to tell you about it, either. Sorry to wrinkle your nose. Next time keep it in your own business.” 

“Patrick, it’s not—” a frustrated growl interrupts his thoughts. “ _Next_ time?”

“Uh-huh.” He’s not sure why he’s digging his heels in this, exactly. He should just shrug and let it go, let Jonah call him names or tell him off and just let it wash over him like a million other things. But something about the tone—he’s so _angry_ —it catches something in Pat, like a sweater on a hangnail, and now it’s ripping up something raw. “I’m fucking good at this, Jonah. So just let me do what I do best.”    

This elicits a little strangled sound, pained air that punches out of him. It’s funny, the kinds of things people will let hurt them. No reason why Jo should be hurt by something like that. 

“You’re not just a _whore,_ ” Jo spits, with malice that is hammered out of care. 

“I’m not _just_ a whore,” Pat cedes the point. His little spot of anger is receding already, warming something else in his belly. He knows Jonah means well. 

There’s a long rest of silence, then. They’re both on edge, and neither’s inclined to bicker when there’s nothing to be gained. Patrick’s not sorry. He’s pretty pleased with himself, actually, for how he sorted it out. It was a good trade. He knows he’s the only one that coulda done it. Brian, maybe. But Brian’s not—he wouldn’t— 

Pat speaks, suddenly. “Don’t tell the kid.” 

“Ha!” It’s not a laugh. 

“Please,” he stoops to asking. “He’ll—it’ll work him up.”  

“No shit _,_ Patrick,” Jonah huffs. “No _shit_ it’s gonna work him up. That we—that you—that we had you _trade your body_ for spare parts—” 

“C’mon, Jo. You know that’s silly. I didn’t trade a thing. Just a quick rental.”

Jonah laughs, despite himself. Like always. “You _fuck_ , Patrick, how’re you so calm about this.” 

“Practice,” he shrugs, and tries a smile. 

It works, a bit, chisels some calm into Jonah’s expression, makes his tone less angry, more despairing. “You could’ve—that’s dangerous, Pat. They could’ve hurt you.”

“They were perfect gentlemen,” Pat says, smoothly. “They coulda just taken it, Jo. Wouldn’t’a been hard. Three guys, three guns, lil old me?” 

“Did they do that,” Jonah chokes, and he’s turned all the way to Patrick now, looking at him hard with something half-like panic. “Don’t _lie._ ”

Pat sighs. “No, Jo. They said please and thank you and coughed up the goods, sweet as anything. I felt a little bad, honestly. I scammed the shit out of them. Hopefully it occurs to them that they can try fucking each other out here, if they’re that desperate.” 

Jonah buries his head in his hands, laughing in anguish. “Brian is gonna find out about this,” he moans. “And he’s going to fuckin’ kill me. If Laura doesn’t get me first.”

“Why not just let it lie, then. What they don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.” 

“Because then you’ll do it _again_ ,” Jonah says, strained. 

“Sure, and the problem?” 

It’s a lot of sputtering and worrying, the whole ride back. Jo eventually agrees to keep his big mouth shut, but he looks so fuckin’ _somber_ that it makes Pat feel sorry. He didn’t mean to—well. Maybe it doesn’t matter, what you mean to do. 

 

* * *

 

 

Pat has strange dreams. It’s not that night, or the night after. But the night after that, he opens his eyes too early and finds Brian staring at him. 

“Was I talking again?” he murmurs, softly.

“Uh-huh,” Brian says. His eyes are wide in the dark, like an owl, like a bat.

“Say anything embarrassing?” 

“No,” Brian answers, and doesn’t elaborate. He just looks at Pat, and looks and looks. 

“Sorry for waking you up,” he sighs, and turns onto his back to stare up. The ceiling is claustrophobic sometimes, short and dark, but the skylight helps usually. Not on a night like tonight, though. When it’s cloudy, they might as well be under solid stone. 

“It’s fine,” Brian murmurs, and settles back down, fluffy head finding its place in the curve of Pat’s arm. “I’m way worse.” 

He is. Brian doesn’t talk in his sleep. He flails—says he’s always been like that, ever since he was a kid, limbs and wriggling everywhere, a dynamo of energy in sleeping as in waking. It’s impossible for Pat to keep sheets on the goddamn bed, but other than that, it’s not a problem, most of the time.

Sometimes Brian has a nightmare, though, and then things can get a little touch-and-go. It’s no trouble if he starts up screaming, late in the night, yelps and panting and bolt-upright like he’s been zapped with electricity. It scares Pat half to hell but he’s not unused to waking up sudden. He waits until the breathing steadies and Brian says _Patrick?_ in half-scared half-sorry tones and he says _yup, I’m here kid_ , and then he brushes aside the kid’s hair and tells him it’s all right a couple times, until he falls back to sleep. 

Those nights are fine. Every now and then, though, it’s a bit more dramatic, and the kid wakes up swinging, and Pat’s got good reflexes but not at three in the morning. 

 _I should just sleep on the floor,_ Brian tends to cry, head in his hands, all screwed up and wet with apologies. 

 _Shut up,_ Pat yawns, and rubs his jaw, and pets him. _You hit like my grandma. No wonder Jonah never let you take the meaty jobs._

 _Patrick,_ Brian hitches, _I hurt you and I’m so sorry and you’re making fun of me for it._

 _Just saying,_ Pat rubs a finger down the kid’s bare back. _If something comes to get us in the middle of the night, hit it harder than that? For my sake. Unless it’s, like, a chipmunk._

 _Nooo,_ Brian wails, and laughs, and wails at himself for laughing. 

After a minute, Brian forgives himself, or gets distracted with all the kissing, and then they settle back down. It doesn’t happen every night. Not even one in ten. But it does happen. 

 

* * *

 

 

Pat’s up on the roof in the late evening, with his lantern and his tools, when Jonah wanders up. He startles, on seeing Pat in the lamp-light, and gestures as if to leave him to his privacy.

“You’re good,” Pat offers. “Company’s appreciated.” 

“I probably shouldn’t,” Jonah mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wavering. “Brian’ll flip.” 

Pat frowns, tilts his head. “He waiting for you?” 

“No,” Jonah says. It’s hard to see his face, in the flickering dim, but it’s easy to hear his sigh, the way he sticks his hands in his pockets, rounds his shoulders. “He’s pissed at me.” 

“What for?” 

“Whatever I did to you,” Jonah mutters, glancing up to the stars. “Or let happen to you. I’m a good liar, Pat, but Brian’s not stupid.” 

Patrick’s fingers twitch. If Brian’s mad, he hasn’t brought it up, hasn’t wavered for even a second in his usual bubbly close-touching affection. But this isn’t, perhaps, a surprise. If history’s taught him anything, it’s that he can’t tell what the kid is thinking, feeling. Brian could lie and lie and Pat would never, ever be able to tell. 

Pat puts down the knife he’s whittling with and wraps his hands around his arms instead. “What’d he say. Hasn’t mentioned it to me.” 

“He won’t until he figures it out,” Jonah gives up wavering and sits himself on the other bench, rests his hands, leans back. “You gonna tell him? Or you gonna wait ‘til he gets it out of me.” 

“Is that a threat,” Pat says dryly. 

“No.” Jonah shoots him a scathing look. “Don’t be an ass. He’s converging on the right answer. Right now he’s between I let you go off on a trade alone and get the shit kicked out of you, or I got drunk and angry and shoved you down the stairs.”  

“Jesus,” Pat mutters, pushing back his hair. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—” 

“It happens. When I don’t get all the _facts._ You said they didn’t hurt you.” He’s pissed, again, but talking to the sky. 

“They didn’t _,_ Jo,” Pat insists. 

“He said you have bruises, Patrick.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah _oh,_ ” Jonah bites out. “If you’re gonna have me lie for you, have the fucking decency to tell me what to lie about. Now look at what you’ve got. He’s pissed, and he’s gunning for the truth, and he’ll fucking get it, too.” 

Pat hunches a bit, puts his elbows on his knees. “Sorry. I—sorry. Didn’t mean to land you in hot water. Didn’t even know I had—didn’t realize they marked me up. Sorry.” 

Jonah breathes in and out, once twice, and steadies. “It’s all right. He’s been...he’s been mad at me, before. He’ll get over it.” The keen eyes angle down, for a second, from the sky to Patrick’s face. “But he’s gonna run this down, Pat. He’ll crack one of us. You know he will. So just thought I’d give you a fair warning. Get ready to talk about it.” 

Pat sighs. “Yeah. I’ll—I’ll talk to him. Sorry for the trouble. It shouldnta been yours.”  

He figures Jonah will go, after this, but he doesn’t. He just stays sitting, not looking at Pat, head thrust up, staring absently at the sky. “What’re you gonna tell him?” 

“That I fucked up, I suppose,” Patrick murmurs to the ground. “Bad instincts. You can take the hooker out of the whorehouse, but—” 

“Don’t say shit like that,” Jonah scoffs. “First off, he’ll go ballistic. Second, it’s not right.” 

Pat shrugs, and gives in to the impulse to slide off the bench, to sit right on the ground. Sometimes he just wants to hike his knees up and rest his arms on them and have a nice convenient way to stare off into the middle distance, back curving like a cowering dog. 

“Then what _should_ I say, Jo?” 

Jonah pauses. “I dunno, man. Tell him what happened, I guess.” 

“How?” 

It’s an earnest question, a little plaintive, even. It surprises something out of Jonah, a tilt of the chin, a look over. A readjustment of posture. Now Jonah’s turned toward him, leg crossed easily over his knee, hand resting on it. Casual. Attentive. Thoughtful. Kind. A listening friend. 

Pat kind of hates it, really, how easily Jonah turns that shit on. 

“I think you can just tell him, Pat,” he says, rather gently. “However you want. He’s not gonna get mad at _you_. It’s not gonna be, like. A jealousy thing.” 

The gentleness rankles, for some reason. “Jonah, no offense, but how the hell would you know.” 

“I’ve known Brian a long time, Pat. Pissed him off _plenty_ of times.” He laughs, a little. “A lot more times than you, I bet.” 

That’s probably true, in its way, but Pat’d argue it’s not precisely relevant. If he were inclined to argue. Which he’s not. 

“Look, Jonah. Let’s just—you ever been fucked?” 

This quiets his laughing. He’s still looking over, but not that friend-open-listening way anymore. Guarded, now. “How you mean, Pat.” 

“Have you ever been _fucked_.” he traces out the syllables, clear. “In the ass. For money? Food? Protection? Information? On a job? To get yourself out of a jam?”

“No,” Jonah says, rather carefully. He’s tipped his chin down low. He’s gazing over his nose. He doesn’t know where this is going. Good. “I’ve had sex for a job, once or twice. The other way.” 

“Uh-huh. You got any idea how many times I’ve been fucked, Jo?” 

The expression tightens. A grimace. “Some idea, yeah.” 

“I don’t know if you do _._ ” He lets the words lick out into the sky like flames. “I dunno if you _get_ _it_. Any of you.”

“We’ve all done things to stay alive, Pat. I’ve done a lot I’m not proud of.” 

“Keep that shit to yourself,” Pat growls. “Who says what I’m supposed to be _proud of_. Yeah, I sucked and fucked and smiled and sent people home happy. I never stooped to slitting throats.”

Jonah breathes in, hard, and out again. “You’re right, Patrick. I don’t know what it was like.” 

They take a beat. The desert air is getting cold, Pat realizes. It raises gooseflesh on his skin.

“So how could you know,” he sighs. “What Brian’ll think.” 

It’s interesting, the expression on Jonah’s face, now. Not friendly-candid and not guarded-angry either. It’s keen. Smart. Pat wishes the lamplight were brighter, but the oil is low. He’s leaning forward. 

“He fucked for a job, Pat. Same as you. Different job. Same idea.” 

“Yeah,” Pat nods. “And what’s he say about it.” 

“Not much,” Jonah admits. A shoulder raises, dips. “If I poke he’ll say he’s always liked sex. Liked flirting. Likes to run a good con. He likes it better than some things—” he laughs darkly. “Better than slitting throats, I mean.” 

Pat feels a tug, but he ignores it. 

Jonah pauses, for a moment. “I can’t tell how he handled it, in ‘Leans. He talked a lot about the folks he met there. You. Jenna. Legs. Ash. Griff. He’s always—he’s always like that. Comes back with the wildest stories. Smiles up a fuckin’ storm. And doesn’t talk about the in-between. I don’t know what he did down there, Pat. I dunno how he feels about it.” 

“He fucked a lot of people, Jo, is what he did.” He allows his voice to give up grating, for a minute, permits himself a wry smile. “And he’s goddamn good at it. Remember. I should know. That scam worked just as good on me.” 

“Hah!” A quick laugh of surprise, a fierce grin. “Well. He’s not you. But he’s been scamming a long time.” 

“Yeah,” Pat sighs. “Sing, dance, lie, fuck. He’s got a lot of options, when he needs something done. You too. Me, I’ve got a limited resume. I work with what I’ve got.” 

“You don’t have to—” Jonah starts. 

“No one _has_ to do anything,” he snips. “You see someone coming at Brian with a machete, you don’t _have_ to put a bullet in his brain. But you can. And you will.” 

“It wasn’t life-or-death, Pat,” he says, softly. “We can get by without. You don’t have to risk it.” 

“I don’t—god _damn_ it _,_ Jonah,” Pat stands, exasperated. “Why let me walk out there and negotiate at all, then? If I’m so goddamn _precious_ why let me risk my neck?” 

“You don’t have to do that either,” Jonah says solemnly.

 _“I’m GOOD at it._ ” Pat’s gestures are loose and angry. He’s worked up. How to explain. How to explain what he _is_. “I just fucking look at people, Jo. And I know how to get what I want out of them. It’s instinct.” 

“How so.” 

Jonah’s voice is measured, even. Pat has the distinct impression he’s just being egged on, permitted to talk. So what. He’ll talk. 

“I could make you _scream,_ ” Pat rumbles lowly. “You’re a patient guy. Calm. You’d like being taken apart, I think. Like a blowjob so long and slow and sinful that you’re tearing up with need.” 

Jonah’s face is serene, unaffected. Closed. Pat has the urge to _push._

“I’d shave, for you. You’d like to close your eyes, I think, and slide into me slow and easy while I whisper filthy shit in your ear. I can’t sing like the kid, but I could get his laugh, I think. We’re both skinny. It’d be easy to imagine him riding you, throwing his hair back, laughing—” 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Jonah growls, and throws himself up. He’s sudden-trembling-angry, and Pat smiles. 

“Anytime, Jo. You fuck me any time you want. No charge.” 

“Shut the hell up,” Jonah says, two breaths again, must be a _thing_ of his, calming his ass down, cooling his blood. 

“This doing it for you?” Pat taunts, steps forward. “I can keep working you up. Until you’re angry. Until you wanna show me _what for_ , turn me over, grind me into the ground, fuck the smartass out of me.” 

“You _dick—I_ wouldn’t—” 

“Oh, you’d feel guilty later. But it’d be worth it. That moment where you kick me over and come on my face, blood and gravel and dirt. You’d get me back, for stealing him from you. Show me what kind of filth I am.” 

“Holy shit Patrick,” Jonah gasps. “You’re—that’s not—I don’t—”

“You’re breathing awful heavy.” 

“You’re _pissing me off._ ”

“Mmmhmm.”  Pat wraps his arms around himself. “I can keep at it, if you’d like.” 

It’s a long moment, watching Jonah wild-eyed stare at him in shades of several raw emotions that would be gratifying for their rarity, if they didn’t sting so guilty at Pat’s chest. He’s already coming down, from his moment of temper. Feeling the cold seep in to his skin. Weighing what damage now he’s done, on top of the damage already clocked, how irreparable it might be, what little he’s got in him to try and put it right. So much for being decent at talking. 

The larger man rubs a hand on his face, and calls out in a quite affected voice. “Brian, just—come out. Please. I can’t—I can’t handle this.” 

Well, fuck. 

 

* * *

 

The kid scrabbles hasty-awkward out of the skylight where he’s been hiding, presumably this whole time. Of course. Of course, these two were running a scheme. Like usual. 

Pat sinks back down to the earth, the same curled pose from before. He’s wearing clothes, but it’s so cold, and he feels naked. 

“Well, caught fair and square,” he says, hand on his face. “Very theatrical way to get it out of me.” 

Brian is hesitating, in the moonlight. Pat can’t look at his face, but he sees the feet, pressing weight back and forth on the balls, shifting, unsettling, moving with stuttering purpose first toward Pat, then Jonah, then back again.

Pat rests his head on his arms. “I’m sorry I fucked them, Bri.” 

This statement, unwieldy, pointless as it is, seems to unstick the hesitation. Brian steps forward enough featherlight steps to touch him. Pat flinches, because his mind is elsewhere.

“It’s okay,” Brian murmurs, crouches. “I just wanted to know.” 

“So you know,” Pat lifts his gaze, to look into the kid’s eyes that are _so fucking close._ “What, now?” 

“Pat, did they—did they hurt you?” 

He laughs hollowly.  “Brian, I thought it was _funny_. They were idiots. Kids. It was almost a public service. I gave them some bait and they took it. I got the better deal by far. It took _fifteen minutes_.” 

Brian strokes his arm and smiles. “You still gotta bill for the hour.” 

“Damn straight,” Pat lets his shoulders relax, a modicum. “Never forget it, kid.” 

“Can you—” he tightens his grip on Pat’s wrist. “Can you please _tell me_ next time? You’ve got—there’s a bruise on your back. And a mark on your hips. And Jo’s been looking like he’s on the gallows for days. And it’s been giving me friggin’ panic attacks, Pat Gill.” His expression clouds. “I thought someone—I thought someone _raped_ you. And you didn’t tell me.” 

Pat lets his head drop back down. “I’ve—I’ve told you everything that’s ever happened to me, kid. You’ve got ‘em all. What’s one more?” 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me then,” he digs his fingers in, plaintive. “Why all this—?”

“I didn’t know what you’d think,” Pat mutters, soft. “Jonah was—he surprised me. When he was upset. Reminded me—you all aren’t what I am. I’ve been spending fifteen years taking things one way, and you might take it different.”

Brian pulls his wrist until he has Pat’s hand, to kiss his knuckles. “I’ve done a lot of things, Pat, but I worked for the widow same as you. Whatever you are, I am.”

Pat sighs, and tips up his head, is rewarded with an undeserved kiss. “Well. You’ve got the talent. But at least I’ve got seniority.” 

Brian strokes his hair gently, fondly, petting out the last vestiges of fear. He’s been forgiven. Halfway. He glances over at Jonah, is surprised that he’s still there. He’s standing stiff, uncomfortable, looking away, but he hasn’t left yet. 

When Jonah meets his eye, he speaks. “Sorry for conning you into talking about your feelings,” he says tightly. “Please don’t ask me to lie to Brian again. Good night.” 

“Jo!” Brian calls, a bit frantically, as Jonah turns and moves quickly away, out into the dark, and doesn’t turn back. 

“Fuck,” Pat pushes up, grabs Brian’s arms with both hands, purposeful. “We better go get him. I’ve gotta apologize for all that.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s almost an hour, before Brian can wrangle Jo back. It takes some pleading. Brian gives up twice, and comes back in to Patrick in their bedroom, and says _look I’ll just make it up with him later, it’ll be fine, Jo’s like this, he needs some time to cool off,_ and Pat shakes his head and sends him out to try again.

Eventually, that stubborn resolve breaks. Jonah’s glaring at the ground, but he lets Brian drag him along. He tends to let Brian convince him of most anything. 

Patrick starts in right away, ‘cause this mess is one he made, and it’s his job to fix it. “I’m sorry, Jonah,” he says, open-faced. He supposes the way he’s seated on the bed mirrors Jo’s earlier pose, though it isn’t intentional. Instinct, maybe. “I acted like an ass. I’m sorry I ever—” he pauses. “I’m sorry. Haven’t had a ton of people who care if I live or die, before. You wouldn’t think it’d irritate me.”  

Jonah glances up, maybe a touch surprised, although Pat doesn’t know why. 

“No big,” he shrugs. “Been quite a while, since I’ve seen you angry.” He darts a dark smile. “You should do it more. You’re fuckin’ good at it.” 

“I’m not,” Pat sighs. He feels like a whipped dog, faded with old rage and pain and terror-stricken, desperate to avoid a fight but even more desperate to be the one that starts it. “No practice. Losing your temper doesn’t get you far, in my line of work.” 

“Well,” Jonah tilts his head. “You’ve got the basic idea. If you’re gonna go, go for the throat.” 

That’s probably all he needs, then. Surprisingly easy, to get them back to where they were. Pat supposes he should have known. Jonah is—understanding. Understandable. There’s something rough in him, that matches something rough in Pat. A practiced barrenness. A dark humor. A grim-faced hateful willingness to deal with ugly things.  

A little glowing wondrous strain of hope, shy and sheltered, only visible, glinting, when Brian’s close enough to light it. 

That’s all they need, to get back to where they were. But Pat owes Jonah more than that. 

He turns. “And sorry for bringing Brian into it, like that. I wouldn’t’ve—if I knew the kid was listening, I wouldn’t’ve.” 

When Jonah tenses, he gets even bigger, somehow, like a scared cat. “Fine. Like I said. You’re good at it.” 

Brian’s stroking Pat’s arm, gently, and Pat can feel it in his fingers, that he’s thinking, that he’s weighing, that he’s wondering, and now he’s got the opening, so— “Why’d you say those things to Jo, Pat?” 

His voice is soft, but not a whisper. The question’s for both of them, really.  

“I was guessing,” Pat shrugs. “Trying to get under his skin—”

“Success,” Jonah grumbles, cuts in, trying to end this with his tone. but Pat doesn’t let him. 

“—I’m not sure I’m right. I’m not always. Usually close enough, though, with that kinda thing.”   

“Oh for _fuck’s_ —” Jonah is upset, dashes at his face. “This isn’t fucking _fair._ I didn’t do a fucking thing and you’re shitting all over me. I wouldn’t hurt you—I’m a—a brutal fucking asshole, maybe, but—I’m not _jealous_ —”

“I believe you,” Pat says, gently, but Jonah’s still going, jittery-gruff. 

“—so don’t cast me as a fucking spoiler in your love story, all right? I saved both your asses. I’m the reason you’re _here._ I wouldn’t fuck your shit up for _anything_. So step the fuck off.” 

“We’re grateful,” Pat agrees, softly. “I’m grateful.” 

“Funny way of showing it.” 

Patrick gets the sense that Brian’s a little overwhelmed, by all this—tears from Jonah, anger from Pat—a real red-letter day, emotion-wise—and probably the kid just wants it all to stop, to calm down, to go back to love and cuddles and gentle music and soft affection.  He’s brilliant and he’s precious and he’s worth protecting and any fucking human being who’s drawn into his orbit can see it, can see that it’s an unequivocally good thing to make the kid happy, in any way, in every way, to make his world the best that it can be. 

So, onward, then. 

“I’m so sorry, Jay.” Pat sighs. “I’m not proud of losing my temper. Like I said, would never have done it if I knew Brian was listening. Wasn’t trying to out your secrets.” 

“Oh fuck _you_ ,” Jonah growls in despair, steps once, and throws his hands to the heavens. “ _Please_ stop—trying to get me to hit you—”

“I know you won’t, Jonah,” Pat murmurs. “At least, not in front of the kid.” 

A strangled scream. “I fucking _get it,_ okay—I lose, I lose, I already took the L— _please_ don’t make him hate me too, if I hit you he’ll never fucking forgive me— ” 

“Jonah?” 

Brian’s voice is sotto, whispery—

but it still tears right through Jonah’s loudness like tissue paper.

Pat turns. “So there’s the cards, kid. On the table. Thoughts?” 

The poor kid is trembling. Brian’s a good liar, but not about stuff like this. He lies by _feeling_ , real and raw and big, and there are many feelings on his face right now—aghast, Pat thinks, is the one most people’d see, but he sees others lurk below, the pages of questions that are half-answered, edges torn and burning with hope. 

“P-please—I can’t—don’t make me pick between you, Pat. I can’t—I’ll never—” 

Pat laughs. “I’m not asking you to _pick_ , kid. I’m asking you to kiss him.” 

Jonah rips out a sob that’s also like a laugh— 

and Brian jumps featherlight— 

four quick steps, the kid can get _anywhere_ in four steps, it’s wild— 

and _tackles_ the larger man, covering him in kisses. 

“I didn’t even know you were _gay_ ,” Brian gasps, coming up for air, from his place wedged on Jonah’s broad chest. 

“I’ve—I’m—I’m not—” Jonah seems bewildered, confused, breathing hard but with his hands tangled in Brian’s hair. “Patrick, _please_ call off your dogs—I can’t—you can’t fuck with me about this—” 

Brian trills a brilliant little laugh up to the sky. “Nooooo, Jonah, it’s _me,_ it’s _me_ he wants you to fuck with. Oh my god do you really—are you really—” he kisses again. “You _do_ like me.” 

“Of course I fucking like you Brian,” he moans. “Literally everyone is in love with you. This hard-hearted fuck fell for your ass in like a _week._ What the fuck is going on. I’m going to _fucking die_ if this is a prank, Patrick.” 

“I’d never,” Pat intones. “Shall I make myself scarce?” 

Brian is running his hands under Jonah’s shirt suggestively, and Jonah is breathing cold round gasps of breath, looking quite undone— 

—but not undone enough that he can’t manage a wry little glare at Pat. 

“I’ll have it out with you later, you _fuck_ ,” he hisses. 

“Mmhmm,” Pat murmurs, and smiles, and leaves.. 

 

* * *

 

 

And it all sorts itself out just fine, except— 

Tara comes and finds him one bright still afternoon, some weeks later. He’s coming back from the beehives and he doesn’t even see her until she’s _right there._

“Pat, can I have a word,” she says coolly, and Patrick’s heart seizes, stutter-steps, at the tone.

“Sure thing, ma’am,” he says easily, shucking off his overshirt. “Here? Or inside.” 

She’s frowning at him even more severely, and he’s not sure what he’s said wrong, but it must be something. “Here’s fine. I figure you’d want some privacy.” 

“All right, then. What’d I do?” 

Tara puts a hand on her waist, contemplates him with pursed lips. He stifles the urge to apologize before he even knows what it’s _for_. People don’t much like that. “Jonah spoke to me about your last trade.” 

Pat flushes, drops his chin. He’d hoped—well, hope’s pointless, anyway. Shoulda known. Hadn’t enough years of this taught him, everyone will _always_ rat you out, unless you’ve got something over on em? “Uh-huh. Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—uh—”

She lets him dangle on that sentence, because she’s a smart cookie, and she knows he hasn’t got a way to finish it, doesn’t even know what part of it she’s pissed at. That he fucked some strangers? That he went off alone? That he traded the tire? That he kept it to himself? That he pissed off Jonah?

He settles for “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Just thought I could make it quick and easy. Sorry.” 

Tara sits herself down on the bench. It’s one of Pat’s old ones, that’s been relegated to out here near the hives now that he’s better at leveling, so she rocks a bit as she sits. “Please don’t be sorry.” She sighs. “And we’ve been over—you don’t need to call me ma’am.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, again, immediately. He forgets, sometimes. She’s nothing like the widow, but those grooves run pretty deep, no matter how you sand at them. “Habit.”

She doesn’t say anything at all, for a long moment, just looking at him, not taking in his apology, for the thousandth time. He wavers. It feels wrong, to be standing. Rude. Like he’s trying to cut off the conversation, which he’s not. He’d never. Whatever she’s got to say, he’s happy to hear it, and he’ll listen, and he’ll try his damnedest to do it. 

But it also feels wrong, to sit next to her, on the little rickety bench, shoulder-to-shoulder like a friend seeking comfort. He doesn’t need comfort, she should know. He’s not broken up, about this. It’d be nice, avoiding eye contact, but he can take his medicine, he can look at her while she tells him what she’s got to say, he can handle that expression of pity or disgust or disappointment or anger or whatever it’s gonna be. 

Most of all, he wants to sit on the ground and look up at her, but she’s certainly not gonna fuckin’ like that. He’s caught, again. It’s always like that, with Tara. She’s funny and direct and cracking-smart, and whatever he feels he should be doing around her is always wrong. It’s wrong to treat her like the widow. She never makes demands—seldom even _requests_ —is patient with his failings and practical about his needs. She invests in an entirely different suite of Patrick’s talents, and doesn’t require their exercise unless he’s so inclined. Her rules are reasonable and fair and talked-out kindly rather than beaten into him until he screams. It’s wrong to act like she could crush him, hurt him, decide he’s useless and throw him out, leave him to die. But—

well, she _could_ , is the thing.  

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do that, Patrick.” 

Standing is too awkward. He risks sitting next to her, even if it’s cowardice to not look her in the eye. She moves a bit—not necessary, but a gesture of welcoming, in its way. He appreciates that. Communication through bodies is easier, with her, sometimes.  

“I know I don’t have to,” he says, to the wide open sky. 

“Uh, I don’t just mean _have to_ have to,” Tara clarifies, with a little sharp hand wave. “Wait. Let me rephrase that. I don’t want you to feel like there’s any incentive to trade sex for goods for the commune. We wouldn’t expect it of anyone. And you’re no different.” 

He shrugs. “I’m a little different.” 

“You’re really not.” 

“I really _am_ ,” he leans in. “This isn’t the kind of thing that gets to me. I’d do it again. I’d do it for _less._ I’d do it just to win at Pictionary.” 

She laughs at that. “Sorry, kiddo, but we _have_ to put you on separate teams. It’s too goddamn annoying otherwise. I’m not budging on that, no matter who you fuck.” 

He sighs theatrically, and she makes a _hmmph_ sound of amusement, and he feels better. 

“Tara, this was an easy one. Didn’t mind at all. Two quick fucks, for something we needed? They were gentle as lambs.” 

“Two, huh.” she sighs. 

“The second’s easy,” he leans in. “Barely any worse than the first.” 

She looks up to the sky, as if for help. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

Pat appreciates that if she’s got disgust brewing, she keeps it out of her tone. 

“I confess, Patrick,” she sighs, at last. “I don’t want you to do that again, Pat. I can’t stop you, and I won’t, but I’d rather you didn’t.” 

He sighs. Of course. “All right. Sorry.” 

Talking out trade is the only thing he’s really _good_ at, and he’s fucked it up. Hopefully she won’t pull him from it altogether, will trust him enough to keep his fucking pants on to let him— 

“Pat, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she touches his arm, lightly. “It’s more about me. It’s not my business in the slightest, what you feel comfortable with—who you have sex with, or why—I worry about you, as a friend, but you—” she smiles a little, “well, you seem all right, unless I’m really shitty at reading your body language.” 

“I am all right,” he says, somewhat nonplussed. 

“It’s different, when you—if you were just doing it to get something for yourself, go for it, have at it. But the commune is my responsibility. And I wouldn’t want to—” she pauses. “I don’t want to get used to sending you out there and putting sex on the table to trade. I wouldn’t ask it of anyone else, and I don’t want to ask it of you.” 

“It’s just a talent, Tara,” he shrugs. “Like singing.” 

“I wouldn’t ask Brian to trade singing either,” she says firmly. “It’s dangerous. When we’re trading something like—a tire, some books—the value’s clear. Communal. I don’t want to get used to trading things that only cost one person. It’s too damn easy for me to act like those are free.” 

“It’s nearly free,” Pat shrugs, although his nonchalance is tinged with something else. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Tara mutters. “And I have no fucking way to guess how much it costs you. Please stop throwing off my spreadsheets.”

He laughs. 

She stands. “So we’re clear, then? I can’t stop you, and I won’t scold you, and if you do it again I won’t be angry. But you don’t have to earn your keep around here, Patrick. Not with things you’re good at. Not with anything. It’s just not how we work.” 

Pat nods, and looks up at her, and risks it, because despite how Tara is somehow tethered to half-a-lifetime of cowering fear, she’s also somehow the only person who he doesn’t mind catching him at his weakest. “Gonna be honest, Tara. I probably—I probably won’t do it again. It wasn’t any trouble, at the time. But it stirred up a couple nightmares. I’d rather not.”

Bless her, bless her, her expression doesn’t soften at all, just stays firm and businesslike and warm, like always. “All right, Pat.”

Yeah, it all sorts itself out just fine.

 

 **hey, where you going? don't go yet** ****  
**your glass ain't empty and we just met** ****  
**ooh, you're mean when you’re loaded** **  
** **i was raised on robbery**

**Author's Note:**

> the transistorverse just keeps spawning things. if you've got an in-verse prompt, holler it. 
> 
> however: usually the ones that appeal to me are from the darkest timelines.


End file.
